


boogeyman

by orphan_account



Series: Latreía mou - Zagreus/Hypnos oneshot collection [4]
Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Married Life, Romance, Video Game Mechanics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22869199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The satyrs have concocted a most nefarious (and cruel) poison: Zagreus is greeted by Hypnos when he attempts escape, and must kill the man he loves if he wishes to continue.
Relationships: Hypnos/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Series: Latreía mou - Zagreus/Hypnos oneshot collection [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1630744
Comments: 19
Kudos: 202





	boogeyman

**Author's Note:**

> In case you missed the tag, Zagreus and Hypnos are married in this.

Even those associated with vermin and rot come to a boiling point. Even those who are polluted as an essential nature can come to a deep passion of indignation from continued slaughter; it is hardly a joyous thing to be so crudely interrupted while performing an arduous ritual of the inconceivable. Moreso, when one’s ritual cohort is unceremoniously cut in two by an abrasive Prince who waltzes unannounced as some barging minotaur, leaving the original count of your abominable choir a deplorable number. No thoughts of consequence, the Prince’s casual disregard to you and your kin almost an admirable thing, with how brazen he is as a discriminatory reaper. But _rituals_ must be performed, _rites_ done, impure liturgies with the sole purpose of riling something underneath Master Hades’ skin must be honoured, because who else will fill that little niche of corruption that even the Lord of the Dead wrinkles his nose at, if not the satyrs?

To be that noxious fungus that grows and festers, that delightful weight to settle upon Master Hades’ shoulders, that burden with little recourse of remedying, is an honour of the highest degree. But it becomes decidedly harder to achieve such a goal when that stupid Prince frolics with reckless abandon and suddenly, there’s less hands to help with depraved sacraments. It becomes even more frustrating when it is known that the Prince isn’t even an _exterminator._ He wasn’t even sent by his father, as originally thought, he’s just an errant child seeking to break out his own domain, and _really,_ what a way to pour more salt to the wound. Master Hades is not _yet_ so taxed by the satyr’s efforts that he has sent his own son, desperation not _yet_ there that he felt the need to use his offspring as a means to quell their foul meanderings. 

As if the satyrs efforts are in vain and the Prince’s trifling is merely a collateral thing for him, and it is a mighty blow to the satyr’s collective pride. And they do _such_ unspeakable things, too, an effort seemingly wasted because the Prince enters and leaves their abode in a haste, never truly admiring their heinous crimes, and never staying long enough for anyone to give him a good, evil monologue either. Unappreciative little shit, _ugh,_ and considering his casual ransacking of his father’s domain, a union between him and the satyrs could have been a lovely one fraught with atrocities, but the Prince is a rude thing who slays them before promptly leaving, never once considering they could pillage Master Hades’ House tenfold together.

But the Prince at least has the courtesy to _bleed._ A twinkling, lovely red, stains that are carefully collected to become a key ingredient in a most lovely little curse. If the Prince so wishes to establish himself as a thorn to their side, then it is time he truly came to a full appreciation of the satyrs’ efforts. They are entitled to that, to actual recognition of their worth as corrupters, they do not dedicate themselves to depravity _not_ to be. As the essence of one’s core, blood whispers its secrets once cultivated, its voice a sonorous thing to any who know how to listen. Once tuned, the Prince’s blood is a traitorous thing, and everything has a weakness, mortal and God alike. 

And the Prince’s weakness happens to be that small God of comatose, brother of Death, son of Night, he who is the Prince’s little consort. The most touching form of recognition is when it is forced, squeezed through tears of grief and anguish and hatred, and the Prince is an affectionate fool, so doting he is to Sleep. The satyrs’ efforts will be appreciated yet. 

* * *

The smell of stepping out of a decomposing corpse is one that Zagreus is… unfortunately? Used to. Apparently, that isn’t a smell most would consider appetizing or one that should be considered as commonplace as it is, as Thanatos once explained, when Zagreus had asked him one time how the mortal realm smelled like. Turns out, a constant scent of putrefaction isn’t how most things just _are._ When Zagreus was able to get a whiff of that scent diversity, stepping into the Surface to face Father, the air that greeted him was—well, cold, predictably, as was everything else in that small arena he has yet to traverse beyond (Father is as much as a talented foe as he is an absent figure in his son’s life). With that first breath Zagreus breathed once those gates to the mortal realm opened, he had thought he was dying. So sharp the sensation was, so unkind the assault had been, and it was a whirlwind of knives stabbing at every inch of his lungs and chest. It was frigid, his insides suddenly frozen with harsh claws, and Zagreus had to halt himself before his heart gave out entirely from the air alone.

The contrast of the air upon the Surface versus that in Hades is sharp and uncaring, and as a result the scent of rot and scorched earth that permeates throughout the Underworld is a warm familiarity versus the stranglehold of the Surface. A bit of warning beforehand would’ve been nice. Just any _‘hey, you’re going to get impaled by a spear when you walk out of these gates, and not by your Father!’_ would have worked. Than is obviously conditioned well enough to not mention how it feels like the gnawing teeth of poison, and it wasn’t that refreshing embrace Zagreus had come to imagine it would have been. And that was—disappointing. Deeply so.

No wonder winters are a harsh time for mortals, _sheesh._ Humans are hardier than most Gods give them credit for.

He muses about that, about humans and winter and the outside (about what snarky comment he’ll say to Father who waits for him, either above or below), while he traverses further into the cavernous depths of where vermin dwell. Stygius gives a purr within his grip, content at the taste of the deaths of living things instead of an infernal wretch, but voracious for more than mere pests. Excited, the weapon is, at the prospect of facing her wielder’s father, at the mere idea of killing a God, and Zagreus uses that excitement to fuel him. Disgracing Father in one-to-one combat will ( _will,_ because it _will_ come to pass) be a boast he intends to relate to Orpheus, with the aim to create the most bombastic lyric that’ll haunt Father for the rest of his days. 

A good humbling will be for Father’s benefit, Zagreus is idly thinking, when he feels the hair on the back of his neck suddenly stand. It’s with that small prickling that Zagreus is brought to instant awareness, and Achilles has always been a good teacher: he turns on his heel at an instant, poised and ready with Stygius. The shadowed hallway is a yawning maw, but empty. Hardly a reassuring sight, because it just means whatever it is that has suddenly brought his skin to sprout into a gaggle of goose pimples must then be _behind him_ — 

When he turns, once more, he expects a sudden flurry of satyrs to accompany that sour taste in the air. The air throughout has been a unique impurity, even within Hell, one that signified satyrs and their rancid lot, and Zagreus cannot be blamed for anticipating an abrupt party of goat-legged scum wishing to dance to complete that swift spoiling of the air. 

Instead— 

_“Hypnos?”_

His voice isn’t surprised, it’s downright _mortified_ as it echoes against the walls as a frantic ghost. Hypnos, _Hypnos,_ pictured as if taken right from the House, white curls bouncy and soft, his cape crimson and full, and it’s—Hypnos, literally Hypnos, as he stands before Zagreus with a smile that sprouts those dimples, self-assured with hands at the hip, pose all too casual for the smaller God to inexplicably be at the Temple of Styx. 

“The one and only!” He chirps as if he hasn’t given Zagreus a literal heart attack. “Huh? _Huh?_ You like surprises, don’t you, Zag? Well, _surprise!”_ Hypnos spreads his arms in ceremony, cape spreading as if he possesses wings and Zagreus can only stare as his thoughts are both empty and a cacophony at once. “You have no idea what I had to pull to get here, it was a real hassle. Like, _trying to find a good place to hide and sleep to avoid work_ kind of hassle. I think I’ve got some new level of respect for you, considering throwing yourself into danger is just second nature to you—”  
  
“What are you _doing_ here?” Zagreus is finally able to manage through a petrified tongue, stepping forward with legs that were stone seconds prior as he closes the distance between them in hurried steps. Hypnos stands as he always does, fantastically aloof, and Zagreus’ own thoughts are a galloping herd of centaurs jumping off a cliff; _what is Hypnos_ doing _here?!_

“Hey, I was just getting to that! Until I was so _rudely_ interrupted.” Hypnos chides with his routine snark and Zagreus can only stare down at the smaller in open disbelief. “Why do _you_ think I’m here? Use that head of yours that you enjoy having clobbered. What's more romantic than a pair of husbands battling out to the Surface _together?_ Nothing, that's what. There'll be hymns about us, Zag, I've got a _good_ feeling about this run."

"Are you—" Has Zagreus suffered some sort of traumatic brain injury, is his brain bleeding at the current moment? It, well, isn’t an _absurd_ possibility, all things considered. He can’t think at that moment, too confounded by Hypnos’ presence, completely infeasible for him to even _be_ here, but literally standing before Zagreus regardless of the fact the mere thought is an impossibility. To the point that Hypnos’ words have nearly escaped him completely, only to stun him nearly as severely as Hypnos’ presence had done. 

"I... Truly?" Zagreus stutters, as if Greek was an entirely new language to him. 

Hypnos isn’t… _wrong._ No, he isn’t at, it _is_ a romantic thought. A mind-numbingly, wonderfully sugary thing that renders Zagreus’ vision to adopt a sudden rose tint, so much so he becomes heedless to how Stygius gives a warm ebb in his grip, willing to grab his attention. 

(Attempting to give a _warning,_ Zagreus will learn later.) 

The malodour of the chamber fades entirely as something loud and warm swells within Zagreus’ chest as a sprinkling fountain. Boisterous as it is embracing, and the feeling of undiluted affection smothers any rationale the Prince could have retained as he looks to the smaller God, haughty and cavalier and so, so magnificent, just as the first time Zagreus realized he loved him. 

"Zagreus, my wonderful, stupid husband," Hypnos sighs, in that dreamy tone he reserves for when he thinks Zagreus is being stupid. "I know you get your head smashed on a fairly regular basis, but surely you can put two and two together. Would I really risk this pretty face to come waddling down—well, _up_ here _,_ just _because_? Walking through Tartarus isn't exactly my idea of a merry jaunt, you know that." Hypnos steps forward, lifting a hand to trace fingers delicately on Zagreus’ chest. "Now, mortals making fanciful little tunes of us breaking out of Hades? You know they love stuff like this. And you know I love my ego stroked. Bit of a win-win, wouldn’t you agree?"

And, Zagreus leans down to kiss him, because why wouldn’t he—Hypnos looks up to him with expectant eyes, a self-righteous smirk and he meets Zagreus halfway with a giggle to greet him when their lips meet. Zagreus casually de-summons Stygius (and if infernal arms could roll their eyes in exasperation, then she would) to free both his hands to curl his arms around Hypnos, bringing them closer still so they may merge together. Hypnos welcomes his tongue with an ever willing mouth, sighing his contentedness as their lips then move in tandem seamlessly as water over stone. They’re in some wretched pit of scum and villainy and yet, Hypnos’ presence, Hypnos’ _mouth,_ makes it positively amorous, with the air grown hazy, the smell—well, still gross, but this _is_ the satyrs’ abode and—there’s something very harsh making itself known in Zagreus’ mouth, actually. 

Zagreus retracts at it, blinking down at Hypnos, who pouts at the sudden exit. “Mate, you taste... _bitter._ ”

And he _does,_ as Zagreus cringes at how spiders seem to sprout within his cheeks. The fuck did this man _eat?_

“Well, that’s an especially weird thing to say, isn’t it.” Hypnos scoffs, stepping away and rolling his eyes as he does so. “ _You_ taste awfully like a man who’s decided to swim through a rotten river of corpses. Not particularly flattering.” 

Well, fine, that puts things into perspective. Zagreus snorts, tongue moving in his mouth at its own accord as he attempts in vain to dispel the staying taste, but it is stubborn as it plants itself. Prancing through Tartarus is hardly refreshing mouthwash, apparently, and Zagreus suddenly winces at the kisses he’s given Hypnos after his runs. Regenerating would fix that, wouldn’t it? Right?

He muses the thought, and if he should get on his knees to apologize to the smaller God for subjecting the man so if his mouth ever tasted as— _acidic_ as what it does now. The taste continues _still,_ Zagreus’ mouth and tongue moving instinctively, but apparently uselessly, to free himself from it. The swallow he does is dry, but his mouth feels as though it is suddenly producing an exorbitant amount of saliva. 

He winces, again, taking stock of the chamber they’re in to distract himself from the adamant racket in his mouth. He squints.

There’s no exits. Or entrances. Or any doorway; that in itself isn’t an alarming thing. Traversing through Hades, fees are expected for further progress. Fees of bloodshed and combat, arenas spawned to satiate such a cost, and the fact this chamber is suddenly vacated from the previous gateways isn’t alarming. No, the fact there aren’t any rats and satyrs to kill is. 

“Something isn’t right.” Zagreus mutters. His voice should have been a quiet calm, but he speaks with rocks in his mouth and he winces _again._

“Ominous! Love it.” Hypnos chirps, nothing amiss, caring not for whatever the fuck that had been in his mouth that has transferred into Zagreus’. “Always a good thing when someone says that, isn’t it?” 

“How did you even…” Zagreus starts, tongue becoming laden and uncooperative, and he brings a hand upwards, unprompted, at the sudden want to purge his stomach. “... get… here…”

“I took a leisurely stroll, obviously. Running as a maniac across Tartarus while praying to whichever Olympian would decide to be kind enough to lend some aid, after they’ve stopped collectively laughing at how I …” 

Hypnos’ voice continues, delighted and unaffected, continuing into infinity even as the man suddenly speaks underwater. Hypnos walks, his pace leisurely as his mouth continues to move as he speaks, but his words are muffled, superimposed on one another, as if the man possesses a choir. Zagreus blinks. He blinks again, as he comes to the realization that his vision is beginning to adopt a haze. 

Zagreus’ teeth are weights within his mouth. An abrupt, and rude presence. Like nails that have been haphazardly hammered into his skull, and Zagreus brings his hands to his cheeks to caresses these invaders drilling themselves deeper. His tongue is a worm, wriggling within a viscous slime and those spiders traverse further downwards his throat, taking with them that sharp and harsh taste that permeates as knives. His jaw acts as rocks that grind together, chipping with each movement and Zagreus bends in a heave, his bones loud in his ears with each scrape, like mountains toppling above his head. Two hundred and six bones and he can hear each and every one, speaking in whispers, then in shouts, a cacophony of jeering caterwauling and his skin is slipping off his flesh as clumps.

His knees are scraping the floor before he can make sense of it, he’s curled in on himself as a dying animal and feeling the part, as the chamber before him morphs and distorts as if made suddenly malleable and contorted through the hands of a giant. His ribs have splintered, stabbing his lungs, his teeth have bored themselves deeper until they have sprouted to opposite ends of his head, there’s an eel mutating in his gut, a deluge of tar seeping at every corner of his innards, and that _taste_ —it persists still. 

Hypnos is still talking. His voice is droning from an impossible distance, and Zagreus can only whimper from where he is on the floor. 

“Hyp- _Hyp-_ ” Zagreus attempts, but any effort of speech dies as he does: as a whittled heap that crumbles apart as sand.

And things are black. And then they are red, and he’s welcomed back into the Pool of Styx.

* * *

“Shouldn’t you take an antidote, when you’re poisoned? You know. To stop the poison, yeah?” 

Hypnos’ voice is, predictably, chipper. He stands just as aloof as he always does, deliberately ignoring the queue of shades and the ledger as he looks to Zagreus with his honeyed eyes, and Zagreus merely stares downwards at his husband.

His husband, standing as casual as anyone would be, at the House, positioned at his usual spot, and never having gone through the Pool of Styx. Despite having been trapped with Zagreus in that poisoned room. Hypnos, who spoke of nonsense that Zagreus, even now, cannot fully recall on the account he was actively _dying_ as Hypnos still performed his soliloquy, and his death must have been a particularly boring spectacle to just ignore outright.

“Hypnos.” Zagreus starts. “You wouldn’t have been _just_ visiting the Temple of Styx, making a surprise appearance to delight your husband, before simply speaking nonsense as I died because my innards suddenly decayed entirely?” 

Hypnos blinks. His expression does not change, his default smile in place, but because Zagreus _knows_ him, the blink the smaller God gives is naked in its representation: bewilderment. 

“Not... that I’m aware of.” Hypnos deliberates slowly, shifting on his feet. His voice next is reverted back to its routine self. “And what an odd and exquisitely specific question. Tell me more? I’m quivering in anticipation. What happens next?”  
  
“I’ll give you all the monologue you desire, mate, if you’ll retreat back to our room with me?” 

Zagreus completes the invitation with a nod of the head and an open palm, and Hypnos, of course, takes it, as he takes Zagreus’ hand within his own. 

“Sure!” Hypnos chirps, speaking next with a conspiratory whisper as he de-summons his list. “Who _really_ needs to do their _job,_ anyway?”  
  
“Indeed.” Zagreus smiles, unable to quell the want to give Hypnos’ hand, so delightfully teeny as the rest of him, a small squeeze. They walk in hand towards their shared room, passing Father as he mutters something to the effect of _Always stealing my record keeper, boy_ as he doesn’t even look up to give the pair a glance from his work. Zagreus gives Father the same treatment, passing without any attention spared to the larger God.

Once they reach their sanctuary, Hypnos, obviously, moves to flop unceremoniously onto their bed. He does so with practically one movement, tossing himself with as much grace as a trained dancer as he positions himself to lay upon the blue covers as a cat without bones. He’s dwarfed by the bed to a comical degree, a sight that will forever be one of Zagreus’ favourites, as the Prince settles himself to sit on the bed with his husband. 

“I’m quite insulted, actually, Zag.” Hypnos muses, allowing Zagreus to take hold of his ankles, as the Prince unstraps the smaller’s sandals. “Mistaking some crone for your dearest little husband. Who is this new Hypnos I should be afraid of, then?”

“It was a very convincing facsimile, forgive me, dearest.” Zagreus responds, as he tosses Hypnos’ sandals off the bed. Zagreus is seated cross legged in front the lounging God with Hypnos’ feet in his lap, and Zagreus begins kneading his husband’s soles, a wordless massage a standard practice between them, and he continues. “He—It looked like you. Talked like you.” A sigh. “And I was admittedly a little blinded by the mere _idea_ you could’ve been there that I suddenly became taken, as if I drank a whole bottle of aphrodisiacs.” 

Hypnos snorts at that, and Zagreus wrinkles his nose at the memory of that—thing that wore Hypnos’ form. Of the acid that had been in his mouth, that had eventually killed him. “It didn’t taste like you, though.” He mutters.

Another snort, decidedly more incredulous. “Gods, Zag, did you really blow fake-me in a vermin riddled cave?” Hypnos says, expression matching his words as something dubious. “Don’t tell me you actually blew fake-me in a vermin riddled cave. With _satyrs?_ ” 

“Yes, Hypnos, I sucked fake-you off as a corpse of an over-sized rat decayed to our right.” Zagreus says flatly, patting an ankle, leveling the other with an unimpressed look. He’d take Hypnos to the Temple proper for a blow job, come on. 

Hypnos’ mouth quirks in an amused smirk, and Zagreus is drawn to those blue-tinged lips as he does so, of how that phantasm kissed, of how it _knew_ how Hypnos kissed. He remembers that taste, and his skin crawls suddenly. 

“But…” Zagreus starts slowly, repeating another great wince. “...We did… _kiss._ ” 

The words are out as a confession of murder, and it feels the part, as guilt is a sudden blade to the chest. Zagreus thinks, briefly, if that was an aspect he should have been omitted, but then _that_ thought leaves him with a greater bitter taste than the actual poison. He’s always promised complete honesty, even if certain truths are sour. 

Hypnos quirks a brow, after a moment, and his smile never leaves him. “Was he at least a good kisser?”

Hypnos’ teasing tone is lost to Zagreus, and he’ll blame that fact on the account he’s been spending time with family who have temperamental prides, whose charity can turn on a dime. Or, more precisely, turn on a choice; the Olympians are infamous for such volatile loyalties and tempers, after all. And he’s kissed another while _married,_ for Gods’ sake, Hera have mercy. The fact he had thought it was Hypnos becomes moot, because _obviously_ it couldn’t have been Hypnos, _idiot._

“I’m sorry.” Zagreus says with a heavy sigh. “I should have known better—”  
  
“Sure,” Hypnos interrupts with a roll of his eyes, a theatrical act, speaking next as if he’s read Zagreus’ thoughts. “But I’m not an _Olympian,_ Zagreus, I’m not going to rip your head off, I haven’t grown that petty yet. But know that your remorse is very cute.” He pokes Zagreus with a foot, and Zagreus is still an idiot. “So, you truly thought I was there? In the Temple of Styx. With _vermin._ ” 

Hypnos shifts, mirroring Zagreus’ own position as he sits cross legged, then resting his head in his hands with elbows on his knees. He speaks with a tone of _are you serious, like actually, you complete fool,_ and Zagreus smiles his surrender. 

“Unfortunately.” He says, with a shrug.

“And then Eros decided to give you a visit and you were about to bed this mirror-image of myself.”

“I was not about to bed it, mate. Have a little faith in your husband for once.” 

“But then you got poisoned and died before you could unsheathe your more delectable sword,” well, at least that isn’t the worst nickname Hypnos has fashioned for Zagreus’ dick, and he has fashioned _a lot_ of terrible nicknames for Zagreus’ dick. “Huh. Satyrs are getting trickier, aren’t they? I hadn’t realized they were proficient in the art of automatons.”

And there’s an idea, but the Fake-Hypnos was free from the usual tells of such a thing; namely, it wasn’t a living statue. It was, well, soft. As Hypnos.

Zagreus hums. “It hadn’t _appeared_ made of bronze.” Or marble, or stone. “It… felt like you. They got the cape down, too. And I really thought it was you, truly. Despite the fact I was in the dwellings of revulsion, and you wouldn’t be caught _dead_ anywhere near any place that would risk your pretty little head becoming tainted with dust, let alone rot.” 

Hypnos’ grin grows wider, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “There we go. Now you’re coming back to your senses. You know me after all.” Hypnos moves forward, his intent obvious and Zagreus meets halfway as the smaller God gives him a quick kiss, lips always a comforting velvet and with the added bonus of no bitter taste. Once Hypnos retracts, he continues speaking. “And now you can’t be fooled again, yeah? It’d be _pretty_ embarrassing to fall for the same trap twice, wouldn’t it? Don’t embarrass me, Zag, we share each other’s shame as husbands.” 

And then Zagreus’ grin widens as well. “I have faith in you, dearest, you’ve carried the weight of your husband’s failures thus far.” 

And what a pack mule indeed, considering how many times Zagreus has died, and how many snarky comments the Prince has been blessed with by the man in front of him.

“Despicable. Please try to refrain from kissing my replicates, no matter how tempting.” Hypnos moves forward again, but not the same way as he had done previously; he places a hand on Zagreus’ bare shoulder, his body closer with obvious purpose. Zagreus leans back, allowing access to his lap if Hypnos so chooses. The smaller leans forward, to whisper at Zagreus’ ear. “Because you _know_ the real one is irreplaceable, don’t you, mate?” 

Definitely in a _mood._ And it's hard not to follow suit, when Hypnos’ voice is tuned to such a tone, his words clearly beckoning with a body so ripe to feel and _take,_ and Zagreus knows he wont find any residual bitterness here, in his mouth (or, at least, not the unwelcome kind). He looks down to the smaller God, who’s eyes have adopted that particular glint with an admirable speed, and, yeah, who _really_ needs to do work? 

“I think I’ve suddenly grown unsure, _mate._ ” Zagreus muses casually, the challenge clear and Hypnos gladly takes the bait, of course. And the thoughts of fake Hypnoses (Hypni?) and satyrs and rats become shelved to ruminate upon for another time, as Hypnos decides to shift off the bed. Clearly the idea of sucking and taste is still heavy on his mind, as Zagreus accommodates him and sits on the edge of the bed.

Hypnos smiles, seated on the floor and in between Zagreus’ knees. “Wretched. Having your spouse have to prove his love, how cruel of you.”

“Perhaps.” Zagreus scoffs, hand settling itself upon Hypnos’ head, his white curls a most lovely crown to pet and pull. “But you love it most when I’m cruel, mate.” 

Hypnos sighs, deep and melodramatic, as his hands settle on each of Zagreus’ thighs, fanning that fire that is beginning to glow underneath the Prince’s skin. “Alas. Such is my weakness.” Hypnos cooes, purposely pouting his lip in that way he knows Zagreus likes, and Zagreus is thinking of what other delightful expressions Hypnos will make when it is the Prince’s turn to use his mouth.

* * *

Achilles’ face is pinched in consideration, mulling over Zagreus’ account of that fake Hypnos. 

“That is a sadistic thing, to use the image of your lover to harm you.” He says, after a moment.

“ _Smart,_ too, as it worked.” Zagreus huffs, hands on his hips as he shifts on his feet. “But hardly one for longevity. I know what to expect, now, and I know it isn’t him.”

The initial shock and bitterness have since subsided, helped heartily by the very man the satyrs have attempted to copy. Hypnos’ mouth makes for an unparalleled remedy. And what’s left is a little _something_ called the need for retribution, and, really, this whole debacle is going to have the opposite desired effect for that satyrs. He’s going to enjoy, _immensely,_ painting the walls with their inner workings, and Ares will definitely be proud. 

“You’ve spoken to Hypnos about this, then, I take it?” Achilles asks, with a quirk of the head.

“Of course. And he brought me to my senses by telling me I’m an idiot, as he usually does.” 

“As spouses do.” Achilles’ smile is indulgent as he says so, before he reverts back to his usual tone. “And you said the challenge area was cleared, only you and this… simulacra, of Hypnos, no apparent foes to slay?”

“Yes, but no gate was open, still waiting for bloodshed even though there was nothing to kill. And then I died, as you know.” 

Achilles hums. Zagreus can see his jaw work as he thinks, and when Achilles speaks again, he does so slowly. “But there was something to fight. You weren’t alone.”

And, well, he wasn’t alone, no. Zagreus can feel his brows crease, his displeasure open upon his face as he looks at the weathered face of the warrior, and, _Gods,_ that is cruel, isn’t it.

“They want me to kill Hyp—kill this clone?” Zagreus’ tone is clear in his distaste, and Achilles makes a face to offer his condolences. “Sadistic indeed. But ultimately impractical, on their part. This is a trick that can only be used _once._ It had only worked the first time because it was wholly unexpected. I _know_ the trick, now.” 

“Perhaps.” Achilles sighs. He looks at Zagreus with, not _pity,_ not exactly, but almost something similar. “But do not doubt the power the mere image of your beloved can hold. You may know this thing isn’t him, but you said it yourself: it spoke as him, it felt like him, it looked exactly like him. Be weary still, because despite the fact you know with certainty it isn’t Hypnos, vanquishing it may… prove difficult, regardless. Hold strong, lad, and remember it _isn’t_ him.” 

Zagreus, as a whole, doesn’t count himself as a sadist, because he’s a _gentleman._ Unless it’s the type of sadism used to squeeze out more particular noises from Hypnos, because he’s still a gentleman, _but,_ that’s different entirely. Prolonging the suffering of an enemy is a waste and unnecessary (and also just _rude)_ , he knows that. But. There may be merit in seeing how long a satyr can reasonably last with a spear in the gut. 

He nods his farewell to Achilles, and Artemis will smile at his satyr hunt.

* * *

Despite _expecting_ it, he still finds himself taken aback by Fake-Hypnos’ sudden presence. Of whom Zagreus should really give a proper title to. Like. _The_ _Hoax_ or something. Pseudo-Hypnos, spoof-spouse, fictitious-husband, imitate-mate. Perhaps not the last one. Whatever, _Fake-Hypnos._

“Are you surprised?” Hypnos’ image says, the voice exact, the image exact, how he spreads his arms and holds himself _the same._ “Well, you should be. Not everyday I bless this place with my presence. You should be honoured, really, Zag.” 

“Hmm.” Zagreus greets, lips pressed into a line as he wields Varatha in his grip. He gives a cursory glance to his surroundings, and the chamber is predictably devoid of any exit. The smell of rot is a permeating cloud, but a specific sourness betrays this false Hypnos, the odor of satyrs. Zagreus will have to kick himself later for falling prey to such a trick in the first place despite such an obvious tell. 

Fake-Hypnos clearly takes his non-committal greeting as an insult, with how it scoffs and squints its displeasure.

“Is that all?” Fake-Hypnos wrinkles its nose in Zagreus’ direction, letting its arms fall limply to its sides. “No sweeping me off my feet, no pulling me into a deep, _passionate_ kiss, no _‘Hypnos I love you my dearest beloved,_ ’ not even a _‘Hypnos you handsome man, what are you doing here’_?”

Zagreus gives a measured exhale, fixing his sights on this dastardly reflection of his lover. Fake-Hypnos meets his gaze with a quirked brow, smile still that mirror image of _real_ Hypnos’ own, highlighted by the _dimples._ Those exact, fucking dimples and how do these fiends even know Hypnos so closely? How did they know they were _married?_ Fuck, _Thanatos_ hadn’t even realized they were an item until they literally kissed in front of him, and he was _invited_ to the wedding.

This phony in front of him, this Fake- _Hypnos,_ this fraudulent apparition or puppet or cloak or _whatever_ this thing is, and it uses the image of his fucking _husband._ He may be grinding his teeth as his jaw clenches, as his blood turns bright and boils more intently than any of the lava rivers of Asphodel. If Varatha were a lesser weapon, she would have snapped at the sudden clenching of his fist, and he doesn’t remember the last time he’s been so, so, _furious._ Similar to when he found of his true lineage, biting with deep fangs, but this is an anger that could have him breathe fire, with how it feels within him. 

His stare is a glare, morphed as a gorgon’s and he _glares_ at this thing in front of him, at the _gall_ of these satyrs. Using his _husband_ against him, and he knows he’ll mount the head of their leader onto his wall. 

“Zag?”

Hypnos’— _Fake-_ Hypnos’ voice, all too alike, all too exact, and spoken with a clear anxious tinge. And even fake things can feel and react to Zagreus’ ire that percolates as a physical thing in the air, weighing down the room. Fake-Hypnos is looking at him, that previous aloof smile gone entirely as its expression has fluttered into uncertainty, eyes as an owl’s as it beholds the Prince.

Fake-Hypnos shifts, moves closer, and is on the cusp of _reaching out (like Hypnos!),_ as if wanting to console him and it spurs Zagreus into righteous action as Varatha purrs in his grip. He moves in a blink, and his target is only able to give a sharp intake of breath before Varatha’s blade makes contact, then impact, then impalement. 

Fake-Hypnos’ mid-section gives away easily with the force Zagreus exerts, as a hot knife through butter and there’s little resistance from the smaller body. Zagreus feels the shaft of the eternal spear shudder once the blade is through entirely, seared straight through his target and suddenly coated in a deep crimson, the sound that accompanies the action the tearing of flesh that crack as thunder. Fake-Hypnos bends at the waist when it is skewered, a loud, terrible choking emitting from its form as the room is assaulted with an unpleasant moist dripping and splashing as this thing finds itself suddenly disemboweled. 

Zagreus pulls Varatha from his foe, allows it to die, and he moves on. Or. He would, he _should,_ this mimic as any other wretch and deserving of the same treatment. 

But—

It looks like Hypnos. Even still, with Varatha lanced through his gut, even still, when Hypnos raises his bowed head to look upwards at Zagreus, and the Prince is pinned, trapped, because those golden eyes are wide with shock, and so, _so_ —It’s Hypnos, completely and utterly horrified, his body giving its last convulses as he dies, his heaves a small and pitiful thing done only on desperate instinct as strangled breaths. And it’s Hypnos, looking in disbelief, betrayal, despair, and it feels like acid in Zagreus’ stomach. 

It’s Hypnos, and Zagreus can only stare numbly downwards, Varatha steady in his iron grip as he can no longer move, and Hypnos’ wheezing is miserable and shallow, accompanied with further splattering as blood or _guts_ or whatever leave him; Zagreus doesn’t look further down to investigate, held prisoner by golden eyes that look upwards, and he can only stare. He can only stare as he can feel himself die alongside Hypnos, whose face further contorts in a horrible whirlwind of misery and agony, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as he starts to gurgle. 

_“Z-Zz-ah—”_

Hypnos’ eyes begin to droop as his gaze loses focus, and Zagreus is finally snapped from his asphyxia as if he’s been suddenly impaled himself. His body moves on its own, his arms retracting and Varatha exits Hypnos through her entryway, slipping out of his body with even less resistance _(because there’s less_ things _in the way, now, all on the fucking_ floor _),_ and Hypnos follows as he falls limply. He lands with a flat _thump._ Face down, landing on his cheek with his face pointed to the side ( _towards_ Zagreus, _eyes dull, staring at nothing_ ), and—he’s dead.

And Zagreus can still only stare, his body a mere numb exoskeleton. A pool presents itself underneath Hypnos, a deep rich red just as his cape, and his body will disperse, now, at any moment, it’ll disappear in smoke and he’ll regenerate as all Gods and immortals do, and he’ll be fine, he’ll be _whole,_ he’ll be at the House. 

Hypnos’ blood continues to seep, collecting beneath his corpse as it just _stays there._ He stays there, and it matters not if gates are opened for the room and there now exists an exit, because Hypnos’ corpse is on the floor, not disappearing, just staying there, inert, and Zagreus is staring, having his fists begin to tremble. 

And something, just, _breaks._

Arguably, this thing—perhaps his sanity, perhaps everything—breaks the moment Zagreus was ensnared by Hypnos’ stunned eyes, that blatant disbelief on the smaller God’s face one that renders Zagreus cold even now. And now, with Hypnos’ body just _there,_ a loud and terrible proclamation of Zagreus’ sin and that thing is torn, mangled _(just as Hypnos’ body is)_ , and Zagreus is going to heave his entire stomach outwards.

“Hypnos?” Zagreus asks, weakly, voice small and quivering. 

And he just _stays_ there, lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood, eyes just staring at nothing, just lying there, still and not disappearing, not regenerating, just a corpse, just dead, and he’s just _staying_ there.

“Hypnos,” Zagreus mutters again through that sudden knot in his throat that seeks to strangle him, and he drops Varatha, the spear de-summoned before she can clang onto the ground. 

_“Hypnos,”_ Zagreus pleads again, because it’s the only word he knows, and his husband is on the floor, _a corpse,_ just _staying there._

He’s on his knees next to Hypnos before cognizant of the fact, his hands are on Hypnos’ shoulders jostling the body in some vain, desperate attempt to have him wake or stir or just to _move._ Just move, a twitch, anything, instead of that horrid blank expression he holds as he lays dormant, with a blood pool that grows larger still, and there’s a fucking _hole_ present through Hypnos’ back because he had a godsdamned spear _through_ him because Zagreus lanced his own husband as if he were nothing and _he was in_ pain _when he died—_

And so taken Zagreus is, by the corpse of his husband, that the sound of hooves approaching are not heard. Being bludgeoned to death by a sudden herd of satyrs is an honest reprieve, when Zagreus is relieved from unstaring, golden eyes. And things become red when he is deposited to the Pool of Styx.

* * *

He stumbles up the steps from the Pool as if he was only now learning to walk and use his legs, head still ringing a splitting sound and it feels like an arrow is still lodged through his head. Is that how he died? Probably, alongside a healthy helping of satyr humbling via a good clobbering, or being sawed in half by one of those troublesome traps and, honestly, he doesn’t care. His death is a featureless thing he doesn’t care to piece together, he died, and he’s back at the House, he’s regenerated fully without wounds and hands clench and unclench, head still resonant with an inescapable squeezing as his brain simmers as a floundering fish. He wrinkles his nose, bringing his palms upwards to press against his eyelids with a groan, body heavy as he stands at the top of the steps.

Evidently, he shouldn’t have closed his eyes at all, shouldn’t have stopped in the first place because behind his eyelids, unstaring eyes look back and Zagreus _flinches._ He does so with a sudden intake of breath, limbs locking as he feels himself tense to a painful degree, and Hypnos had been a corpse. The vision of which leaves Zagreus’ mouth dry as the charred earth of Asphodel and the ringing in his head morphs as a blaring tune that adopts an distinct accusatory timbre. It feels suspiciously as though all Fury sisters scream at him his transgressions with venom. 

Fuck. Achilles was right, so, _so_ terribly right, this is more difficult than it rightly should be. _Fuck_ satyrs and their filth and fuck their stupid damned rats. 

Zagreus sighs, a deep, shuddering one as he rolls his shoulders, loosening his tension. _Good one, mate,_ he thinks unsympathetically, pinching the bridge of his nose. Satyrs: 2, Zagreus: 0, and, wow, that’s completely and utterly embarrassing, and the House should all start laughing at him for such a blunder, truly. He walks on instinct, stepping with thoughts lost in a sea of righteous self-deprecation, and musing how satyr meat would taste, when his sights automatically train towards Hypnos.

Well, he would have, if Hypnos was _there._ But he isn’t. His little alcove is bare, empty except for the vacant sleeper sofa Zagreus gave him as a courting gift, and Zagreus’ eye twitches. His breath has hitched again. Shoulders return to tenseness, hands clench with a sudden itch and _eyes that stare at nothing, and he was still warm to the touch_ —

When had he become such a spooked imbecile? Achilles must be sighing in disappointment already, Father’s smugness feels more suffocating than usual and Hypnos is going to roll his eyes at him. And those golden eyes will _look_ at him, focused and not glazed over and _alive—_

This is ridiculous. And _humiliating,_ and he walks to his room as he normally does, no quickened steps, not through a growing panicky haze because obviously Hypnos is in their room, asleep and safe, his body is not marred and Father does not give him some knowing, pitying look. Zagreus already feels degraded as is, _ugh._

Hypnos _is_ on their bed, when Zagreus enters the room. Caressed in the covers at if in a vast ocean, eye mask in place, snoozing, obviously, _obviously._

(What had he been expecting?)  
  
Zagreus swallows (When had his mouth gone dry? When had his heart traversed to his throat?). He sits on the edge of their bed as if burdened with an impossible weight, and Hypnos is asleep, peaceful and tranquil and unmoving. He’s fine. He’s _safe,_ in the House, in their room, in their bed, he’s asleep and unmoving, inert as he lays in a pool of his own blood that grows larger at a steady pace, his eyes and face so outright in stark disbelief, because how could his own husband do this to him? Hadn’t Zagreus vowed, with words brought raw through tears, that he would protect Hypnos, on their wedding day?

 _"Hypnos,”_ Zagreus’ voice is strained, body working on some desperate impulse and his hand grips harder on Hypnos’ shoulder than he means to, as he shakes the smaller God.

“Wha—I’m up! I’m awake!” Hypnos startles, _moving,_ thank the _Gods,_ and he jolts with flurry of motion as he retracts his eye-mask to his forehead and shuffles into a seated position. “What’s happening? Who’s dying?” 

Hypnos' gaze moves at a rapid pace as he looks for some invisible threat, the haze of slumber quickly dispersing with a rudeness until his sights land on Zagreus, and he blinks the remainders of sleep away. His eyes are focused, conscious _(alive)_ and so brightly coloured golden, that syrup Zagreus could become drunk on and something loosens inside him, a weight is suddenly lifted and he can _breathe_ again. 

Of course Hypnos is fucking _alive,_ the man was merely asleep and there’s nothing that could harm him while in the House. Not that there would be any _reason_ for anyone/thing to ever _want_ to bring Hypnos to harm, he’s fine. Of course he’s fine. Zagreus knew that. 

Hypnos squints at him. “Geez, Zag, you look like you’ve seen the Titans come back and start eating everyone.” Then he squints _further._ “The Titans _haven’t_ come back and started eating everyone, right?” 

Hypnos’ brows are creased, his look of such open concern a rare thing even within the sanctuary of their room, and, sheesh, Zagreus really must look like a mess. Even when his relief (what are you relieved _for,_ what had you been _expecting,_ idiot?) has poured through him, he still feels paler than usual. 

“You’re fine.” Zagreus blurts to just say _something,_ his tongue a sudden uncooperative organ, and Hypnos quirks a brow. _Of course he’s fine._

“Yeah. Sure am, no Titan chow here.” Hypnos huffs, slouching where he sits. “Except for the fact I was so callously awoken by you, hello?” Oh, he should probably apologize for that, but before he can, Hypnos continues. “Oh, wait. I get it. You _missed_ me.” 

His usual cheek is back, that snark as comforting as his physical embraces, and Zagreus could sink in such gooey respite. 

Zagreus smiles, and speaks the truth. “Yeah. More than you could possibly imagine, mate.” 

Hypnos’ smile is his regular one, one of smugness as he leans back so he lays on the bed, hand raised and finger beckoning for Zagreus to follow. He answers that call, of course, as Zagreus settles to lay next to his husband, allows Hypnos to take his usual residence as he leans his head upon Zagreus’ shoulder, and this is right, this is normal, ideal and how things should be. Gods, he needs a fucking nap.

“So. No Titans, clearly.” Hypnos muses, slowly, tracing a finger on Zagreus’ chest. “So the reason you looked so rattled was because you _just_ missed me. Nothing else you’re just _dying_ to tell me, huh?”

Hypnos looks up to meet Zagreus’ eyes, tone and face obviously expectant and Zagreus should tell him. He should tell Hypnos that his double is—a more difficult foe than originally thought, and that Zagreus is weaker than he originally thought. Hypnos would be able to bring him to his senses, as the man always does, that anchor Zagreus can always count on.

Instead, he says: “I was hoping you could tell me. I mean, talk to me. Just, uh, tell me about what you were dreaming of, just now? Really make me feel guilty for interrupting you.” 

He has his arms curl around Hypnos, urging his closer still, and Zagreus wants him near, wants him touching, warm and undeniably there, in his arms, _safe._

He _knows_ Hypnos knows that he isn’t telling him something. He can see it in Hypnos’ face, with how he looks up to him, and Zagreus is right _fool. A weak coward,_ and he doesn’t want to discuss the events at the Temple, not yet, not _now._ He’ll atone later, Zagreus concedes, he’ll do some sort act of self-flagellation at such blatant and crass weakness, but right now, _right now,_ he just wants Hypnos close. 

They have some wordless exchange, _I’m not ready to talk about it, not yet,_ and Hypnos, _bless him,_ allows Zagreus this cowardice. He hums in consideration, settling his head comfortably upon Zagreus’ chest.

“Well, it was pretty good.” Hypnos starts. “It included a donkey and a fig, and what happens next will shock you!”

And as the air is filled with Hypnos’ voice, more calming than any lullaby and as enthralling as any epic, Zagreus is slowly freed from the visage of a betrayed face with blood on the floor.

* * *

Fake-Hypnos doesn’t have a routine, because he— _it_ doesn’t always appear at the same location. 

It arrives earlier, this run, and Zagreus knows the satyrs are growing arrogant with this blasted trick. And through his own anger at such a fact, he can hardly criticize them for it, all things considered. It's proving to be a challenge, to say the least, one that he has been shamefully hindered by. 

Exagryph is a solid weight within his arms when he senses the thing behind him. _Turn on his heel and_ shoot _,_ is what he should do, but satyrs are a dastardly lot, and Fake-Hypnos speaks quickly. 

“Hold your applause, for the main event has arrived!” It sounds just like him, that jovial tone, that pompous attitude, and Zagreus can only turn on his heel slowly and regard this thing. “Okay, now you can clap.” 

Fake-Hypnos has his arms spread, an actor waiting for a standing ovation with an expression just an expectant, and Zagreus should just shoot this phantom. Just shoot, and be done with it, exit the room and continue.

He doesn't (because he’s a damned _coward_ what is _wrong_ with him), and Fake-Hypnos, obviously expecting some sort of response from him, lifts a brow in question. 

“Zag?” It asks, letting its arms fall to the side, voice a perfect mirror of Hypnos’ casual tone, and yeah he should shoot this thing already. 

Exagryph is raised, Zagreus' intent obvious, finger on the trigger but, _but of course,_ Fake-Hypnos’ eyes widen as his shoulders jolt and Zagreus _doesn’t_ shoot gods _dammit._

Fake-Hypnos blinks. Then he lets out a small bark of laughter, loosening its shoulders as it does so, as it is able to morph its expression into its previous casualness. “ _Woah,_ hey, watch where you’re pointing that thing. Wouldn’t want me to be suddenly polka-dotted with my giblets all over the wall and floor.” 

Fake-Hypnos lets out a breath, a small amused scoff, as his eyes dart from Zagreus’ face to Exagryph, assuming Zagreus’ aim is a fluke. Its eyes dart some more, when Zagreus doesn’t lower or point his weapon elsewhere, and Fake-Hypnos’ smile falters.

His finger is on the trigger. It’s an unmoving target, with how Fake-Hypnos stands where it is, hands raising slowly in sudden uncertainty, and Zagreus can shoot this damned thing and be done with it, and it should be easy. He’s vanquished countless others, wretches have always been only a mere inconvenience (mostly), but his body is traitorous thing, definitely. This mirror image is exact, he knows already Fake-Hypnos will continue this act even while dying (a heavy reminder that crawls upon his back like a mound of snakes), and he knows likewise its body will not disperse. His oath to protect his husband is tricked just as he is, as his body hesitates on its own accord at the trigger. 

“You’re not him.” Zagreus says aloud, a mutter done to himself, some attempt to convince his unreliable uncertainty. 

“I’m not—who?” Fake-Hypnos scoffs, still smiling, but clearly grown unsure. “Give me a heads up if we’re roleplaying, mate.” 

_Mate,_ and Zagreus _scowls_ at that. Only Hypnos, _real_ Hypnos, indulges Zagreus with such a quirk, only Hypnos calls him so, and Zagreus will not allow such a precious thing to be so sullied. 

_“You’re not Hypnos.”_ And his teeth are bared, with Exagryph raised with more certainty. 

Fake-Hypnos freezes, suddenly paralyzed with obvious _fear;_ eyes as saucers with golden irises glinting with alarm, smile wiped entirely as it takes a tentative step back, and any residual drowsiness that Hypnos always permeates is replaced with painful awareness. 

_Gods,_ he looks like Hypnos. He looks like Hypnos, _afraid (and he feels so_ putrid, _being the cause of such a look),_ with a myriad of emotions swimming across his face as an open canvas. Fear, obvious and terrible, shock, that awful, _awful_ disbelief that sticks a knife (or _spear_ ) right through Zagreus’ gut. He sees Hypnos take a dry swallow, throat bobbing as his hands are raised instinctively with palms open, showing himself as small of a threat as he is able, and speaks with hurried speech.

“I-I mean. Last time I checked I was.” Hypnos lets out a nervous laugh, high pitched and something Zagreus never wants to hear again. “You come across a lot of me in Tartarus? Mimics aren’t in season yet. Have there really been wretches stealing my look? I mean, _I_ would if I was some bored daimon who has nothing better to do than dredge around for all eternity and sometimes kill you, I guess. They definitely could have picked _worse_ Gods to copy and this look _is_ pretty comfy, and uh, uh—” 

He cuts his own rambling short with a stuttering halt. Hypnos’ face contorts, something imploring, something beseeching, crushed by a weight greater than the one Atlas wields and the man stands as a defeated husk. The situation has set in more firmly for the smaller God, as Zagreus still has his weapon pointed at him, and the Prince can see, physically, Hypnos coming to that impossible realization with a quivering lip. He’s small, so impossibly small, and betrayal is both a slow flaying and a sudden beating, and seeing it on Hypnos’ face is worse than any death Zagreus has ever experienced.

“Zagreus.” Hypnos says, _pleads. “What are you—_ put that down, will you? You’re making me nervous.”

And despite everything, Hypnos still attempts to lighten his tone, with the corners of his mouth fluttering upwards as an insurmountable act, finishing with another weak attempt of laughter. And Zagreus is finally able to pull that trigger with a sudden jerk.

Exagryph’s roar is a loud, clambering cacophony that reverberates through the chamber as an earthquake. The barrage is finished as abruptly as it came, Hypnos stumbles to the floor as a heap with an accompanying wheezing breath, and it’s done. It’s done, only seconds long but the echoing _thump_ of Hypnos’ body lasts as an eternity in Zagreus' head and Zagreus forces himself to relax. Good _Gods,_ he needs to relearn those meditation techniques Achilles taught him to clear his mind. He lowers Exagryph but she—vibrates within his grip, a questioning rumble, _an unfinished job,_ and Zagreus looks at the weapon in inquiry. He hasn’t noticed that an exit hasn’t spawned for the chamber. But he _does_ notice that fact, when he hears something that has his bones become encased in ice.

“ _Zagreus,_ ” a small, pathetic wheezing manages, rising from a precarious clump of crimson cape and curly hair. “Z-Zagreus,” Hypnos chokes out once more, a pitifully _wet_ sound because the man is _gurgling_ and he isn’t dead, merely dying still, and Zagreus feels his knees buckle at the sight of it. Hypnos is lifting himself with stumbling movements to lean against an arm while the other cradles at his afflicted chest as he creates a soundtrack of feeble gags, and Zagreus can see an unhealthy amount of blood pour from him. From his nose, from his mouth, from his tattered chest.

 _Polka-dotted,_ Hypnos said, and never before has Zagreus been made so queasy at the results Exagryph gives. Hypnos’ chest is ravaged, torn apart as shredded paper and it is difficult to discern what is his flesh and his tunic, torn as both things are, so _red_ as both things are. Exagryph is a cruel artist, and regret and guilt is a noose that strangles Zagreus as Hypnos’ chest is brought to pieces, _giblets all over the wall and floor,_ and this is a weapon that should never be shown to the mortals or wielded by any hands, suddenly. Hypnos’ gasps and coughs are ragged and uneven (and so disgustingly _moist_ because his choking on his blood), his hand uselessly caressing his numerous wounds as if there were any chance he could be put back together, like he wasn’t currently a scattered mosaic.

 _“Za-ah-greus,”_ Hypnos starts again, his frail babbling done through shock or hysteria or both, the Prince’s name his only weak anchor as he looks downwards at his torn body. 

“You’re not him.” Zagreus says, and his voice is weak to his own ears, like it belongs to someone else entirely. And it isn’t him, it isn’t Hypnos, even when he raises his head with shaky movements, eyes willing to pop out of their sockets and he’s crying, of course he’s crying he’s been fucking _shot,_ and Hypnos jaw works through the gush of blood still pouring from his mouth.

He’s going to ask _why,_ some poor, quiet question because why would Zagreus ever do this to him, how could his trust be so violently mauled, and that is a question Zagreus can answer. _Because you’re not him,_ and he isn’t, and Zagreus raises Exagryph once more.

Hypnos’ face further writhes, through that physical anguish does something much more potent and awful arise; _grief,_ pure and terrible and Zagreus’ heart is being torn in his chest. 

“W-what did I _do?_ ” Hypnos asks, heaving as more tears are spilled, and it’s a question that is so much worse than _why,_ because Zagreus can’t answer it. “I’m sorry, a-alright, is that what you want? I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry...” 

Hypnos wilts, slumping onto the floor and curling upon himself as he continues dying, his mournful diatribe persisting. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry,_ and Zagreus thinks suddenly he should raise Exagryph to himself, ending himself right there as penance. If only to free himself from this. From this continued string of _I’m sorry_ which hangs in the air with a physical weight, more damning than any gallow. Through a beginning onset of hysteria, birthed from a growing pit in his gut, does Zagreus think: _who hurt you, to make you think you deserve this._ A painfully ironic thought, considering, but one that surfaces unbidden because Zagreus grows truly mad at the moment, because he's apologizing and it's worse than getting torn apart by the Hydra or crushed by Theseus or Father's blank expression as he watches Zagreus die in the snow. He's frozen by a horror that drowns him in tar as he sees Hypnos convulse, heave, and splutter out a final pitiful apology, before he stills entirely.

He’s curled into a ball as a dog, a final halting breath, and he’s dead. And Zagreus stands numbly, only peripherally aware of how an exit presents itself finally. Hypnos’ body truly as pitiful as some unfortunate animal that has been on the receiving end of a disgusting sadist, a dismal picture and Zagreus heaves where he stands from the sight of it, his shame a slow but ever present knife that carves at every inch of him. 

( _A bitter taste in his mouth,_ and Zagreus is too distracted to notice.) 

“You’re not Hypnos,” he attempts, voice hollow, some desperate statement for himself, and Zagreus is able to trudge himself outwards the chamber and further inwards the Temple. 

Satyrs and rats are practically a welcome sight, just so he may rid himself from the previous image of Hypnos, but it proves to be a difficult haunt to exorcise. Even through battling vermin, despite having targets worthy of his indignation and ire, his body isn’t his own. He pilots as an observer, his movements cumbersome and disconnected, and there’s nothing to focus on through the haze of his vision.

 _I’m sorry,_ that perilous song, and Zagreus does not take an antidote in time. And things become red. 

* * *

He shakes the remainders of blood from his hair with jolt, before massaging his temples. It’s like running headfirst into a godsdamn _wall,_ at this point, and feeling the part with these residual headaches it brings. He doesn’t have a score anymore, lost count when the Satyrs hit double digits, and this is just really, _really_ sad. He truly feels sympathy for Achilles, the man had not trained him to become so— _gullible._ Zeus’ beard, he _knows_ it isn’t Hypnos, but it’s like he falls into a trance with these encounters, and, Hells, there’s an idea to think about. Satyrs specialize in poison, so it probably _is_ some sort of hypnotizing (hah) smog that renders him so exploitable. 

He needs to breathe in a long breath when he reaches the top of the steps of the Pool, centering himself, to wash away that lingering bitter taste of stones in his mouth, and _get it together, mate._ He rolls his shoulders, manually loosening the tension still held within them, and this is a song and dance that’s gone for far too long. He’s better than this. He’s bested the satyrs _before,_ after all, and has done so on more than one occasion, bringing Cerberus that most delectable putrid sack. 

(And that’s also just a kick in the groin, isn’t it; he hasn’t been able to give Cerberus his treat for a good hot minute because of this.) 

Even _walls_ can be worn down and torn, even if he has to use his head as a battering ram to do so, and this’ll become some terrible footnote. And maybe _(hopefully,_ some part of him thinks), when he’s gotten over himself and has bested this trick, the satyrs will forego this hoax. Gods _willing._

Hypnos, real, actual, _wonderful_ Hypnos, stands where he always is. When their eyes meet, Hypnos brings his brows upwards in silent greeting, smile broadening and deepening those charming little dimples as a result. He’s basically a lure, with how Zagreus walks to him on impulse.

“Antidote pools are there for a reason, you know. Like, for curing poison. Not just there to look pretty. Curious, I know.” Hypnos chirps once Zagreus reaches him.

And—Well. It must be his voice, that triggers something within Zagreus to crack as a sudden broken mirror. 

His voice, torn to pieces just as his body is, a desperate plea from blood-stained lips, apologies that should have never been uttered, and it is a noose that hangs still. It’s a violation that invades the entirety of Zagreus’ body, mind included; and even if he can physically see Hypnos in front of him, free of a frayed chest and blood still all safely within, it doesn’t dispel the image of him having a frayed chest with all his blood outside him. 

_Curled into himself, as an animal with no more will fight, face tear-stained and sullied with blood_ —and a single image of Hypnos dying was enough, was _too_ much, and this vision is made particularly venomous with a litany of _I’m sorry_ and it’s too much. It’s too much.

Hypnos makes a quiet _oof_ when his face meets Zagreus’ chest. The smaller God is brought to merge with Zagreus’ front as the Prince takes him in a tight embrace, arms curled around Hypnos in a secure hold and yeah, this is how things should be: with Hypnos here in his arms, with Hypnos curling his own arms around Zagreus’ waist, with Hypnos nuzzling his nose closer. 

A moment passed, and Hypnos shifts on his feet, face still appropriately _smooshed_ against Zagreus’ chest. “As much as I love it when I’m smothered by your tits,” Hypnos manages, moving his face to look up to Zagreus. “You are making a scene.” 

Which might be an odd thing to say, considering Hypnos is never adverse to blatant displays of affection while in public ( _I love making everyone jealous of me,_ he had said once, taking to Zagreus’ lap like a king to his throne in the lounge when there had been a seat available, and Thanatos wrinkled his nose in disgust), but Zagreus _had_ embraced him suddenly. Had done so with an air of urgency and Zagreus isn’t daft enough to think Hypnos would not have picked up on his tenseness, connected as they are at every level.

“Ah,” Zagreus hedges, releasing Hypnos from his hold, and the smaller steps back. “Thought you deserved a well-earned boob cushion, mate.” 

Hypnos lets out a breath of amusement at that. “Your bosom is always well-appreciated, Zag, and nothing lulls me to a sweeter slumber.” He gives a small tap to Zagreus’ chest, stepping back to his post properly. “And I would like to exploit said bosom when I am relieved from my station, so do make yourself ready for me.” 

To the ears of others, it’s a finishing remark and a promise of an amorous night, but Zagreus hears those unspoken words within, and Zagreus understands. _Your Dad won’t tolerate any more ditching of my station, I have to actually be relieved for once to speak to you in private._ So Zagreus responds with a nod, and takes his leave. 

When Hypnos is relieved, some time later, Zagreus is seated upon their bed and musing over the bouquet of poppies Hypnos gifted him as courting gift; a luscious red as a centerpiece, a crown upon shelf that exists behind the bed, the seeds of the plant the main ingredient in Hypnos’ remedies of sedation. _You can use these to lace your weapons and give yourself a sudden slumber-party,_ Hypnos mentioned, and it proves still a decent buff during his runs.

“Alright, talk to me Zag.” Hypnos says, once the door is closed behind him, settling himself with Zagreus on the bed. “I have the itching suspicion that this isn’t _just_ because you missed me, no matter how flattering that would be.” 

Zagreus sighs, allowing himself to be moved as Hypnos sits behind him, hands on his back, clearly positioning himself to massage Zagreus’ shoulders. “You remember the satyrs and their new trick, don’t you.” He mutters dryly.

Hypnos hums, kneading his hands upon Zagreus’ trapezius and, huh, his muscles were still tight. Hypnos’ patting and rubbing and stimulation leaves him loosened, sagging as if he no longer has bones and Gods bless, really.

“Did you kiss him _again?”_ Hypnos teases, leaning forward to further emphasize his needling as he speaks nearer to Zagreus’ ear. “I told you not to do that, come on, I know I’m irresistible but curb your lust for your _actual_ husband.” 

Zagreus snorts, leaning into Hypnos’ ministrations. Hypnos already knows that fake-him is a hindrance, considering the amount of times Zagreus has been poisoned to death has fucking skyrocketed, and he indulges Zagreus further still in these quick little talks about it. But Zagreus hasn’t been so— _bothered,_ about this, since the first time he killed Fake-Hypnos. A stubborn chapter in his life and he wants to skip it already. 

“I did not kiss it, mate, you can rest easy.” Zagreus says, rolling his eyes. “Though, I feel like I should apologize, regardless. It would appear fake-you is a considerably higher hurdle than I originally thought.” 

“Well, with a face like mine, I can believe that.” Hypnos slumps against Zagreus’ back, slinging his arms around Zagreus’ shoulder as his hands meet in front. “Doesn’t _really_ explain while you’re acting like there’s bats in your pants. Being jittery isn’t a good look on you, honestly.” 

This _shouldn’t_ be such a difficulty, it really shouldn’t. It shouldn’t feel like a weight when he arrives at the Temple of Styx, and _blood and darkness,_ it shouldn’t feel as though _Cerberus_ _(fucking_ Cerberus!) pities him when he makes forlorn whines when Zagreus enters the satyrs’ chambers. 

“It’s difficult killing fake-you, Hypnos,” Zagreus murmurs, reaching upwards to take Hypnos’ hands in his own. “When it looks so like you.”

He looks down at their hands, Hypnos that perfect match he wouldn’t be whole without, as their fingers curl over one another. Hypnos shifts behind him, lowering his head to plant delicate lips on Zagreus’ nape.

“You know.” Hypnos says softly, breath silk against Zagreus’ skin. “That’s _really_ romantic.”

A rumble presents itself in his chest, as Zagreus lets out a quiet laugh and he squeezes Hypnos’ hand. 

“Only the most saccharine of sentiments for you, beloved.” He says, letting that lovey-dovey tone free and wild as he turns to look at Hypnos over his shoulder. 

“And I expect nothing less, mate.” Hypnos says, moving then to place one of those delightful pecks at Zagreus’ cheek. “And if it helps any; I _promise,_ with all my heart and all the dreams I monitor, that I won’t visit the Temple of Styx. And if I ever do, I’ll greet you with a _‘Hail, husband t’is I, the real Hypnos, your irreplaceable lover and not this fiendish copy.’_ Yeah? That’s our little secret codeword.” 

It’s a simple, _deceptively_ simple, sentiment. A small, offhand thing but the words, the tone of casual tenderness, their hands together and Hypnos might have well have presented Mother herself for what this feels like. 

“Thank you.” Zagreus says, lost entirely in a sea of golden as he looks at Hypnos.

Hypnos smiles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. He shifts, relocating himself to be in front of Zagreus as his hands cup the Prince’s jaw. “Now tell me I’m the better kisser.” 

And yeah, _yeah,_ Fake-Hypnos has nothing on Hypnos when it comes to his expert lips, when their mouths meet as entwining serpents and Hypnos makes just a _spirited_ gasp during, and it spurs Zagreus to bring the smaller God onto his lap with fire underneath his skin.

* * *

Sure, _names_ have powers, as do certain words and phrases, when imbuing a spell and Hypnos must be some fantastic secret sorcerer because that _codeword_ really does work. And it must be an incantation of shielding, because Zagreus frees himself from that chronic catatonic state when facing Fake-Hypnos.

It still isn’t _easy,_ by any means, Fake-Hypnos still looks like Hypnos, still speaks as him, even while dying and dead. But it _doesn’t_ greet Zagreus as Hypnos would, and it’s such a small, near insignificant tell, but one that breaks the petrification as Aegis protects him from projectiles. And what a delightfully simple solution. But even with the solid relief it brings, it still does not curb a certain disgust in his stomach from swelling when Fake-Hypnos falls with that terrible flat _thump._

No matter how much he knows it isn’t Hypnos, seeing his husband’s look-alike become decapitated when Aegis is thrown as a flying saw is hardly a relaxing thing. 

(Moreso, when he fucking _trips on the corpse_ when he needs to backtrack to leave, and such a fact leaves him with a hollow victory. Vanquishing the satyrs wasn’t as fulfilling as he had hoped, merely a deed done, an obligation filled, but he knows they’re a lot he will most likely meet again regardless.)

~

The air of the Surface, as stabbing and cold as the first time he breached it, like being suddenly accosted by a knife. But even despite such a stark (and oftentimes cruel) contrast of the air of Tartarus, the air of the Surface has never been so _freeing._ It is such a welcome reprieve, even if freezing, from the Temple, from the _satyrs,_ from their rot and filth and from dead, unseeing gold eyes, and, whew. This took longer than it should have.

Man, _fuck_ satyrs. 

Father’s back is towards him, predictably, his cape an abrupt crimson in the sea of white that exists around them. 

“Father, I absolutely did not expect you to be here. What a pleasant surprise.” Zagreus greets dryly, adopting the stance Achilles’ taught him, summoning Aegis. 

“I’d imagine so,” Father rumbles, turning in that dramatic slow motion he’s reserved for their little fights. “Considering you’ve just sliced Hypnos’ head off his shoulders, I should think that even _I_ would be an agreeable change of scenery.” 

That sharp, stabbing feeling is brought with a vengeance, when Zagreus takes a sudden intake of breath, the ice in the air taking residence in his lungs. Father says it so brazenly, a facet like any other and it’s a blunt reminder, if anything. A rude one.

“So you know that trick they pull.” Zagreus replies tightly, Aegis thrumming in his hands. “You wouldn’t have something to do with that, would you. Seems low even for _you."_

It’s a far-fetched accusation, and Zagreus knows that. Father looks insulted by it, genuinely and truly, and there’s an absurd comfort to be had in that. Well, at least Father, for all his coarse tendencies, hasn’t actually gone to such a low.

Father sneers down at him. “Always, you prove yourself to be a naive _child._ I would not reduce myself to the level of literal _vermin,_ it would do you good to use your fool head at times. You are inane but still a denizen of this domain, you know well that _I_ know _everything_ that happens within every corner of Tartarus. And as I knew you and Hypnos were coupling even before you made it public, I know that the satyrs exploit your greatest weakness fully.” He steps forward, a slow movement that results in his shadow dwarfing his son as he regards Zagreus down his nose with a raised head. “A commendable effort, thus far, with results to show for it.”

Ah, yes, there it is; _salt,_ on the wound. Typical. Zagreus scoffs. “Planning on giving them some sort of reward for such a feat? I’m sure you’re just ashamed of yourself for not thinking of such a stunt sooner.” 

It’s _still_ far-fetched, and Zagreus _still_ knows that, but there’s an irrational thing squawking inside him begging for release with claws and a too-sharp beak. Father has always shown a level of desperation to keep him in Hades. Even if only ever bringing up Hypnos in one of his crass remarks, _Hypnos, collect your errant husband before he brings further shame to the House_ here and a _you’re embarrassing poor Hypnos with this cycle failure, boy, have you no semblance of courtesy_ there— 

(And an especially cruel _how do you possibly expect anyone to believe you to be faithful, when you readily leave him behind. You act as if you are Zeus’ son, with such habits inherited, you miscreant,_ and Zagreus was made blind with rage. Which, clearly, must have been Father’s aim, considering Zagreus was rendered shortsighted with frenzy and was prompted bested.) 

—even _if_ only mentioning Hypnos in such throwaway remarks, Zagreus can’t be faulted in wanting to make _sure._ Sure that Father would keep this between _them._ Fake-Hypnos is already enough for all lifetimes. 

Father always glares, always does so with distaste, but he does so now tenfold. His voice is a mountain crumbling. “If I had wanted to use Hypnos against you, I would have held him captive in the deepest labyrinth, guarded by all the most unsavoury adversaries you could possibly imagine, making your impossible rescue mission stretch into eternity to the point you forget completely your pointless endeavour to the Surface.” He shakes off his cape, allowing it to disperse before it hits the ground, and summons his weapon. “But the ledger of the dead doesn’t do _itself,_ I’ve yet to perfect such a charm.” 

He speaks with a tone of antipathy, dry with a hint of mockery, and it’s the nicest thing Father has ever said to him. 

“Thank you.” Zagreus breathes, and it is the first time he has thanked Father with actual sincerity for anything. “For not pulling him into this.” 

“Hypnos is already part of this family feud whether he likes it or not, on the account of being your husband, and you have _yourself_ to blame for entwining him in such a mess, boy.” 

And with that, their duel begins.

(And Zagreus dies with a stumble, with blood staining the whiteness of the snow, and his dying thought is _at least Hypnos will be waiting for me._ And things become red.)

* * *

So, turns out, even when bested, the satyrs continue with their little hoax. Even still, when their score eventually evens out, when Zagreus is able to clear the Temple. And even still, apparently, does Fake-Hypnos persist as a particularly annoying gnat, even when freed from paralysis, even within the sanctum of their room. Maybe this will be a thing that will forever stain him. And what a despairing (and _inconvenient)_ thought that is.

Zagreus may not sleep as much as his husband, but any God and immortal comes to slumber _eventually;_ and doing back-to-back trials through Tartarus is a fatiguing thing for any living thing, God or otherwise, and sleeping with Hypnos is always a refreshing remedy. 

Well. Apparently even _that_ is only _usually,_ because even if Hypnos is literally curled into his chest and they rest, it does not save Zagreus from nightmares.

He wakes with a jolt, breath stuttering as his heart wills to burst from his chest, vision brought to focus almost painfully, as his eyes dart to every corner, attempting to map any supposed threat. His brain practically halts when he realizes he’s in his room, obviously, in his bed, obviously, with Hypnos, _obviously,_ and the rapid cooldown from his initial adrenaline is like a chariot to the chest. He sags as that bright impulse to ready himself to _fight_ leave him as a landslide, and he raises a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. There is no stench of rot here, no bitter taste in his mouth, no corpse. 

Hypnos, because he had been resting on Zagreus’ chest prior, is awoken when his pillow suddenly jostles. He splutters awake, scrambling his eye-mask to his forehead as he blinks rapidly to chase away any residual slumber, before focusing on Zagreus. Zagreus winces. He makes a face of apology, and Hypnos’ brows crease. 

“Did you just have a nightmare?” Hypnos blurts, a tone of disbelief. When Zagreus gives a single, jerky nod, Hypnos literally balks. “Oh, my bad. Must’ve slipped. _That’s_ embarrassing, hah.”

Zagreus holds no ill will at the fact, he would never be so petty, as he does not expect Hypnos to always inundate himself with overseeing each and every aspect of Zagreus’ dreams. Even Sleep can become fatigued from such a thing. And nightmares can be a ravenous, devious lot that are exhausting to constantly barricade against. 

Hypnos yawns, moving his hand so he may touch Zagreus’ temple. “C’mon let me—”

Zagreus moves on impulse alone when he grabs Hypnos’ wrist, halting his movements entirely and eliminating any returned sleep from Hypnos, as the smaller God’s eyes focus immediately when Zagreus grips him. He had done so without thinking, some lingering jitters the blame, and Zagreus promptly loosens his hold once he becomes aware of it. 

“Sorry. Sorry,” Zagreus mutters. “It’s, uh, alot.”

He sighs, a deep sound, as he slumps. Hypnos had only attempted to access his dreams so he may weed out the nightmare and remove it, so it wouldn’t linger. But in doing so, Hypnos himself would be subject to it and—What is Zagreus doing, halting his husband from doing so? Some sort of counterproductive act of trying to protect Hypnos from images of his own corpse? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t _want_ Hypnos to see it, truthfully, it haunts him and the mere thought it would affect Hypnos similarly is a nightmare in itself. But there’s no use in pretending this is nothing, and Hypnos will weed regardless, even if Zagreus tells him not to extract the nightmare. He'll simply put Zagreus to slumber and then act as an exterminator when he sleeps, so there's no use in acting as a child and denying Hypnos his charity. 

Zagreus lays down, head on the cushions and makes a wordless gesture for Hypnos to continue, if he so chooses, and Hypnos does. His hand graces Zagreus’ forehead, and the Prince feels, physically, Hypnos enter.

It takes a second, only a blink, but Hypnos experiences the vision in its entirety with a dazed expression.

_A spear lanced straight through his abdomen, a wet splattering an invading sound. His death a certainty but one he feebly attempts to curb by trying to piece himself back together, a useless endeavour, one born from delirium. Shock a smothering snare, his chest mangled as if mauled, and what had he done, for Zagreus to do this to him?_

“Oh.” Hypnos blinks. He flexes his hand and makes a face. “Yeah. That is a lot, isn’t it.”

Hypnos flops to his side, next to Zagreus, and he snaps his fingers absentmindedly, banishing the nightmare. Zagreus stares at the ceiling. Hypnos stares at the ceiling. Zagreus probably won't be able to return to sleep, unless Hypnos enacts a spell on him, and he stays staring at the ceiling, thoughts empty as his body feels.

“You kill _Meg_ on a semi-regular basis.” Hypnos says, after a moment, turning his head to look at Zagreus.

“I’m not married to _Meg._ ” Zagreus drawls, turning to face Hypnos as well. “ _Meg_ also attacks first, _always,_ because I would be happy, _always,_ to simply walk past her but she has a _job,_ and that’s attempting to foil me. _You_ never attack. You never fight _back._ ”

“You mean _fake_ -me.” Hypnos says with a roll of the eyes and Zagreus squints at him. “Come on. You like to boast how you vanquish Theseus all the time.” 

_Theseus_ is an annoyance, a boastful annoyance, that is infinitely fulfilling to eliminate with a fight that proves invigorating each time. Fake-Hypnos is the exact opposite. 

“Forgive me for not taking pleasure in being forced to kill my own _husband,_ mate.” Zagreus’ voice is flat, but he feels a twinge of irritation plant itself within him. 

“But it’s _not_ me—”

 _“I know!”_ Zagreus snaps, without meaning, bringing his hands upwards with the sudden need to throttle something. “I know it’s not you, I _know_ I am weak for being affected by this damned trick because _obviously_ it isn’t you, it’s some illusion that takes your form and I should simply vanquish the damned thing with ease because it _isn’t you._ ” A sigh, a deep, frustrated one. “It’s some phantasm, some disgusting illusion that I’m too stupid to look past, and it isn’t you. It isn’t.” 

The ceiling, as he has been told, is apparently an impossible height for mortals. Extending so that stars exist within their room, and humans reputably do not have celestial architecture, which is a pity. He feels his jaw clench as he maps out the constellations above. 

“But it _looks_ like you. It _speaks_ like you. It _acts_ like you. And no matter how I try, when I kill it—all I can _see_ is _you._ ” 

His voice is weathered, the nightmare may have been dealt with but it does not change the fact he retains memories of the actual slaughters he is forced to give Hypnos’ double. He never wants to be subjected to Hypnos’ face of disbelief and pain, but he knows he’ll be forced to.

“It looks like you, when it dies. By my hand.” 

Zagreus manually quells the forming knot in his throat, and continues to stare upwards. He feels Hypnos’ gaze on him, sees from his peripheral Hypnos’ face turn to melancholy, and he thinks he should vacate and throw a few swings at Skelly to calm himself. 

“Well. When you put it that way…” Hypnos starts, voice resigned. “Uh. Yeah. Sounds like a hassle.” 

And Zagreus can’t help but give a snort at that. Yeah, it _is_ a hassle, to say the least, and he really is weaker than he thought. He feels the bed shift as Hypnos moves, and is easily transferred to lay his head in Hypnos’ chest, as Hypnos guides him so with arms secured around him. Zagreus lets a breath, more shuddered than he would have liked, and Hypnos’ embrace is an impenetrable shelter. He listens to the smaller God’s heartbeat, a sonorous rhythm that he focuses on, an anchor he knows he can rely on indefinitely. 

“You know I would never hurt you.” Zagreus mutters quietly. “Yes?”

He has vowed, _always,_ always vowed he would protect Hypnos. And it is a promise he intends never to break, one spoken on their wedding day, one strengthened after he told Hypnos of his quest to the surface and one he would die for infinity rather than sully. 

“Well, _yeah.”_ Hypnos scoffs, as if it’s the most obvious thing and it is an impossible soothing comfort, as he cards fingers through Zagreus’ hair. “One of the big selling points to marrying you was that you actively brawl with any and all wretch in whatever plain of Tartarus you’re at with little to no hesitation. And that’s the marker of a man that would drop everything should I become a damsel in distress, no matter the kind of fiendish foe causing me the distress.”

He should look into that, Zagreus peripherally thinks, considering Hypnos has brought up the _damsel_ scene on more than one occasion. _Someone_ has a fantasy. He smiles at that. A small one, but one born of infinite fondness, and he curls his arms around Hypnos’ mid-section, squeezing.

“And I would. I _would,_ I promised you that when we coupled.” Zagreus says.  
  
“I remember.” Hypnos muses, fingers still brushing through Zagreus’ hair and Zagreus is made into a languid heap. “It’s a memory I’ve got stored specifically for when I’m feeling extra sentimental.” 

_Likewise,_ Zagreus thinks.

Zagreus shifts, only slightly, jaw working as he attempts to find further words. “Seeing you hurt, even if it's only a vision of you, it’s—”

He’s halted by himself before he can continue. The words die in his mouth, and his jaw closes with a _clink_ of the teeth. But he need not say more, such was enough, and Hypnos cradles him, a refuge in all this. _It’s hard, it’s difficult, it’s_ excruciating, and Hypnos gets it. He holds Zagreus, and it’s all he could ask for, all he could need. 

“Maybe you can give those satyrs a stern talking to.” Hypnos quips after a pause.  
  
Zagreus lets a small huff. “I’d prefer to make them into rugs, if I’m honest.” 

_“Ooh,_ I like that.” Hypnos snickers. “Delightfully barbaric, and I’ve always thought we were missing some satyr skins to adorn the walls or floor. Haven’t I always said that?”

Hypnos’ tone is its jovial self, and Zagreus could drown in it as he feels himself begin to smile in earnest as he lays on the man’s chest.

“I believe this is the first time you’ve ever actually mentioned it, mate.” He says, and it’s true, Hypnos has never mentioned wanting satyr-related taxidermy.

“Clearly, you don’t listen to me, _mate._ ” Hypnos gives a playful light pat on Zagreus’ shoulder. “Get us some satyr boons, yeah? Skins would look good draped above the mirror.”  
  
“Horns adorning the headboard…” Zagreus muses.  
  
“Skull above the door.” Hypnos muses back.

“Mounted head?”

“Oh yes.” Hypnos delights. “Hells, take it one step further, let’s just get a whole stuffed satyr for the corner that we can use as dart practice, yeah?”

“You've read my mind.”

And that previous weight of the nightmare is loosened gradually, as Hypnos’ chest moves as he lets out small, light giggles. Zagreus listens to that heartbeat, that delicate cadence that continues, with Hypnos’ arms around him and—maybe he _can_ fall asleep, still. He intends to make his home on Hypnos’ chest to do so, but Hypnos unexpectedly speaks once more. 

"Everything worth doing, is hard.” Hypnos says quietly, and Zagreus looks up to him. “And the Fates do enjoy giving their hardest challenges to the _sexiest_ of people.” 

Hypnos looks down with cheek and eyes glinting, fingers trailing from his hair to trace on Zagreus’ cheek. 

“You’ve taken down the Bone Hydra _how_ many times, now? How about Theseus and Asterius, literal _heroes;_ a King! A _minotaur!_ A literal _minotaur,_ and both at the _same_ time? And one of them has a _chariot?_ ” Hypnos’ voice morphs played up awe, and maybe Zagreus is a little egotistical (maybe a _lot)_ , because he basks in it. “That shoots _explosives? Hello?_ ” 

(Finally, some actual recognition for _that._ Well, okay, not _finally;_ Hypnos had pounced on him after he had retold a _slightly_ embellished tale of one vanquishing of Theseus and Asterius. Hypnos has always been open in his like of Zagreus’ strength, getting hot and bothered under his tunic as Zagreus told him how he wrestled Asterius to the ground.) 

Hypnos continues. “When you get to the Surface, there’ll be epics about you, statues—speaking of we still gotta get a statue of us for the courtyard—also you’ll get a _cult,_ humans love stories like these. Of overcoming adversity, overcoming your parents—definitely like _that_ one—of romance and erotica.”

Zagreus wrinkles his nose at that, leveling Hypnos with a _look._ “The humans don’t need to know of our sex life, mate.” He says with a smirk, remembering _all too clearly_ how their consummation of marriage had… a specific effect, on mortal dreams.  
  
“Sure, mister patron of wet dreams.” Hypnos responds flippantly, and there’s that specific effect. “Maybe Orpheus will sing a proper song about you. He still needs to write something about how you so thoroughly seduced Sleep. Everybody loves a love song.”

“Not much of a song, mate, all he needs to say is _‘The Prince flexed a bicep and Sleep became hard’_ no matter how true a story it is.” Zagreus wheedles, purposely smug.

“Just make it rhyme and it’ll work.” Hypnos scoffs, a roll of the eyes accompanying him, and then he looks down at Zagreus, face turned an open canvas of tenderness. “You’re a stubborn handsome idiot and you’ll get there, eventually, to the Surface. Your Mother will be proud, as will I be, and I’ll wait for you here, no matter how long it takes.”

Is that knot in his throat resurfacing? It may be, as Zagreus looks at that dreadfully sentimental expression Hypnos wears, voice matching it, and Hypnos has always been decidedly fickle with his emotions, actually. Hidden under snark and sarcasm, and even within their room something he tends to obscure, an insecurity he allows Zagreus to see only at certain moments.

“And I’ll love you even if I never see you again.” Hypnos says, voice a rare level of open, raw endearment, as if baring his heart physically, words a familiar reference; the very same words, when Hypnos showed a unique moment of startling vulnerability to Zagreus when Zagreus had told him he would try to break out of Hades. And Zagreus responds the same, the words he spoke then too.

“You’ll see me again. You’ll always see me again.” 

“I know.” 

And Zagreus lifts himself, crawling himself upwards and Hypnos meets him easily as their lips merge. His hands border Hypnos' jaw, Hypnos’ own wrapping around Zagreus’ shoulders and their chests meet, hearts becoming one. And this is always where he’s meant to be, with Hypnos, with lips upon each other, bodies a shelter and this thing, _them,_ was always meant to be. It was just the most obvious thing, marrying Hypnos, who he protects and who protects him, and what an easy, wonderful thing.

The satyrs, _Father,_ may believe Hypnos a weakness, but with how Hypnos makes it feel as if the sun resides beneath his skin, Zagreus doesn’t know how Hypnos could be anything other than a strength.

**Author's Note:**

> Eros is he Greek god of lust/sexual desires. You may know him better by his Roman equivalent of Cupid. Depending on myth, Eros is either the son of Nyx or the son of Aphrodite and Ares. I like to lean that he’s Nyx’s son, simply because Hypnos and Eros would be THE most annoying pair of brothers for Thanatos. 
> 
> Automatons, in Greek myth, were metal statues of men and animals that were alive (as well as sometimes sentient) and were sculpted by Hephaestus and Daedalus. Robots before there were robots, basically.
> 
> Also, yes, I know Zagreus’ blood being red is an abnormality among Gods, as repeated in canon. But red's a good colour and idk what Hypnos would bleed realistically, lol.
> 
> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
